


Interspecific competition

by heilan_coos



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bird/Human Hybrids, M/M, Miscommunication, Other, Snake traits, Snakes, bird traits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heilan_coos/pseuds/heilan_coos
Summary: Prompt from classics_lover on lj:courtship rituals of a snake and an angel are very different, so neither one is entirely sure if the other is receptive but also they keep trying
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 48
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	Interspecific competition

**Author's Note:**

> https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/

Crowley was a creature of instinct both demonic and serpentine. It had been too long since his angelic days for very much to have stuck around, not that he missed it, but when it came to getting angels to sit up and take notice he was supremely confident. If there was one thing that he was built for it was luring into temptation, and he happened to be a more sinuous and glossy model than the rest of the legion.  
  
And yet, none of his patented techniques seemed to be having much of an effect. He'd been trying consistently for an embarrassing length of time, even for an eternal being, and yet Aziraphale seemed to stay as affable and oblivious as ever, the only slight change being an infinitesimal expansion of his waistband as he enjoyed the fruits of the earth. It was something that Crowley found himself egging on at every opportunity, the added weight pushing into the reptilian parts of his makeup and taking hold. Good, better. The compulsion for him came in waves until he was hungry himself, and could just about swallow him whole, but Aziraphale would certainly consider that impolite.  
  
Similarly impolitic would be sinking his teeth into that warm neck. Far too forward, and he always wore those high collars as if to warn people off. He always left his own neck bare though, just in case.  
  
His less drastic measures had come to absolutely nothing, as far as he could tell. It was good to be near Aziraphale, for that little warmth, but the closest he could normally get through the layers of fussiness was the odd poke at his belly, which both soothed him and made Aziraphale puff up and turn a rather lovely pink.  
  
Crowley had always been proud of his moves, as any demon rightly would be, but even the most fluid of his waving about to whatever old fashioned music was wafting through the bookshelves was only glanced over, getting an indulgent smile at best as though he was a child. He'd tried putting on something faster or more sensual music, but it ran the risk of a tutting if he pulled Aziraphale up to dance along with it.  
There were always pheromones, the staple of the mortal world, but the smell of old books in the shop was so strong as to drown anything else out and seemed to follow the angel around in a protective cloud of leather and parchment. He'd brought him some strange French confection once, and just after Aziraphale had made a particularly contented hum he was so sure the overflowing of satisfaction and desire would make his intentions clear. All that had resulted was the object of affections wondering aloud if he could smell Maltesers.

Aziraphale had never been all too good at this whole wooing business, but then he'd also very rarely had to try. He had instincts, as all angels did; another aspect of the love that had been baked into them at the creation stage and then squirrelled away so they could focus on the more important business of keeping order and pestering demons. There was certainly no mystery to the birds and the bees anymore after he'd seen the whole sequence play out thousands of times over the millennia, in a thousand different species, and while he'd never partaken it was safe to say that he was world wise.

All of this education only made the fact that he was failing so totally to signal his intent to Crowley even more frustrating. There was a long list of moves that he was sure would make his courtship a plain thing, without having to go the fiddly way of trying to explain in words feelings that he wasn't sure of himself, and yet there had been no sign that any of it was being taken up at all. It was enough to make him doubt himself, although since there hadn't been any clear rejection yet he held close the possibility that it just Crowley being coy. After all, his attempts had been meticulously crafted with the utmost care, so there was little chance that his intentions could have been misread.

First were the meals. It was a rule, deep in his core, that the way to a partner's heart was through their stomach, and yet any provisions he did offer were normally batted away with ease. He'd moved on to offering alcohol, and while that was accepted, it was then normally shared, which inevitably sank any hope of him pressing the suit.

He longed to truly show off his wings, sure that as another wing-bearer Crowley would be impressed by their shine and length, but tucked away as they had been for centuries he had yet to manufacture a reason to manifest them, and to do so unprompted would be terribly gauche. The next best thing was to dance for him, but Crowley recoiled at the gavotte for its lack of friction, which left him at a loss again.

The most obvious option, for both himself and all other avian infusions, was singing, and it was the one that Aziraphale shirked from the most. He'd never been the best singer and had been rather obviously shuffled to the back of the angelic choir at every opportunity, but at the very least he could whistle up a storm, both literally and figuratively. He'd come to brushing up his skills in the bookshop, which had the very pleasant side effect of irritating browsers out of the door, and although Crowley certainly didn't seem as annoyed by it, his patience was limited. Once, when he'd tried out one of his best music hall tunes, Crowley had started into the odd undulating dance he sometimes did, as though his bones were only an optional structure. It had been charming, even if it was a little modern for him to truly appreciate. It was a good sign, and he resolved himself to digging out his old 78s to get a wider repertoire.

So far the most successful of his instincts had been grooming. It had sprung up on him out of the blue one day, as after a long and frustrating day of ecclesiastical paperwork Crowley had come to visit, and he'd been simply too tired to miracle away the dusty remnants of some obscure devilry. He'd ended up dragging Crowley over to sink into the sofa and let him brush and pick away all the speckles, in a fashion that was both satisfying both to his fastidiousness and the deep intimate desire to show his dedication. Crowley seemed receptive, gradually relaxing into his side as he flicked invisible dust from his clothing, until they gradually lulled each other to sleep. It had spurred him on to a grand plan, one that he was certain that was going to be successful and finally get across what he had been signalling for so long. He was certain that nobody else would be able to build a nest half as perfect, especially after specialising in comfort for so many centuries. Happily the humans of the era had come around to the notion as well, and popularised a whole industry of tiny cushions which he felt confident would come in just perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> There is no specific snake or bird in mind here, its a hodgepodge of everything.


End file.
